I often forget that I'm a little person. It's the physical

Hear the voice of Sinéad Burke, a teacher, an advocate, a writer, who declared with profound simplicity: “I often forget that I’m a little person. It’s the physical environment and society that remind me.” These words shine like a lantern in the dark corridors of human pride, reminding us that it is not the soul that carries limitation, but the world around us that insists upon it. She speaks of a truth that transcends her own life: that dignity is innate, yet it is often the structures and the judgments of others that diminish it.

To be a little person, as she describes, is not to be small in spirit nor diminished in worth. It is only a matter of height, of body, of form. Yet the environment—the doors too high, the shelves unreachable, the tools made for hands unlike hers—whispers to her daily: “You are different.” And society, with its glances, its unspoken assumptions, its careless designs, declares the same. What she forgets in her own wholeness, the world insists upon reminding her. This is her lament, and her courage in voicing it is a gift to us all.

History too speaks of such truths. Recall Homer, the blind poet. To him, blindness was no cage of the spirit. He sang of gods and heroes, of Troy aflame and Odysseus adrift. Yet it was the world around him that would have called him incomplete, that would have labeled him less. And yet, who among the sighted of his age carried vision greater than his? The lesson is eternal: the body may bear its differences, but it is society’s measures and its physical structures that define limitation.

What Burke reveals is not bitterness, but clarity. She teaches us that the true disability lies not in her form, but in the failure of society to create a world for all. A step without a ramp, a handle placed too high, a sneer instead of kindness—these are the things that remind her of her difference. If the environment were shaped with care, if society valued every form of humanity, she would not need to remember she is a little person, for she would simply be a person among persons.

The ancients knew this, though they spoke it in other words. The Stoics declared: it is not things themselves that disturb us, but the judgments we place upon them. Burke lives this teaching. Her body does not disturb her; her own heart forgets limitation. But the judgments and the barriers imposed upon her are the reminders of difference. The power of her quote is this: it shows us how the invisible chains of society weigh heavier than the body itself.

The lesson, O seeker, is clear: when you build, build not only for yourself. When you design, design for all. When you look upon another, cast aside the scales of difference and see instead the spirit that burns within. For we are all made vulnerable, not by our forms, but by the cruelty of indifference and the arrogance of exclusion. To honor another’s dignity is the truest act of justice.

Therefore, let us take practical steps: in our workplaces, our schools, our streets, let us shape the environment so that none are reminded they are lesser. Build ramps beside stairs, widen doors, lower shelves, and most of all, educate hearts to honor every difference. And in our daily encounters, let us resist the silent cruelty of assumption. Instead of reminding others of their difference, let us remind them of their humanity.

So, remember the wisdom of Sinéad Burke: the soul does not carry limitation—it is society that imposes it. Let us then be builders of a world where none must remember their difference, because every difference is embraced, and every human form is honored as whole. In this lies the truest greatness of a people, and in this lies the promise of a just society.